The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  For the first time, The Face had not worked. Maybe Daphne had finally grown resistant to it? Percival had to keep fighting until he found another opportunity to use it.

  “At least I love machines and not other women!” countered Percival.

  “Percival, ten years ago, that excuse was consoling. Now, I almost wish you loved other women and not those instruments of death!”

  Percival said nothing.

  “Tell me, Percival. If you must fall in love with inanimate objects, why not do so with a tea cozy? Maybe a dish towel would also treat you kindly? Or a new set of doilies? They are foldable, machine washable, and harmless. Even better, how about a broom or a mop? You could romance them around the house while cleaning up after the kids. At least I would get some satisfaction from these relationships.”

  “Now you are being malicious, Daphne.”

  “No, Percival. I am dead serious. You could keep a doily in your bedside table. When you felt the urge, you could just take it out and bond with it while I am asleep. Then I could wake up the next morning and, like any self-respecting wife, pretend that my husband did not spend the night drooling over an ornamental mat! But of course the outlet cannot be a harmless doily. It is a gallows you made from weapons which ‘may have killed thousands of people’. Why gallows, Percival? Why?”

  Percival felt a jolt up his spine. The answer was simple.

  Souls ...

  The weapons in the gallows held the souls of all the lives they had taken. By combining them into a single instrument of death, all those spirits would be amassed in his gallows. When a person was executed on the machine, the army of souls already in the decommissioned weapons would flow throughout the structure and concentrate into a tightening fist in the loop of the noose. The noose would then grip the prisoner’s neck and snatch his soul out of his convulsing body. The event would be electric. All that spiritual voltage ...

  The joys of the machine were obvious and endless. Benhilda would make every execution the culmination of thousands of lives. But his wife would never understand spiritual voltage. How could she? Percival decided to avoid that discussion altogether. Daphne heaved a deep sigh. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

  “Percival. Would you have the courage to actually hang someone from your own gallows?”

  Percival blinked. If he conceded that he could not do it, he would come across as a coward and a hypocrite. If he said he could, he would appear brutish. How would Daphne digest such an answer?

  “Well, I would never be allowed to hang anyone. I consulted a lawyer who knows a lot about these matters. As a British citizen, I may face criminal charges for executing prisoners abroad, even if the death penalty in those countries is legal. But of course, this subject only came up as a caveat during our conversation about something else. What I really wanted to know was whether simply making the gallows could expose me to the wrath of the British government. Apparently, it could, but we found a way around ... Have I answered your question?”

  Daphne’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Let’s try this again ... husband. If you had the blessings of all the governments in the world, would you have the courage to become a hangman? Do you think it’s right to facilitate something you could never do yourself? ... Or maybe you could do it?”

  Percival felt the unease creeping up from his stomach to his throat. This was one of those revealing moments that could forever change the course of their relationship.

  “I am all confused, Daphne. Please tell me which answer would get me in the least amount of trouble?”

  Daphne threw her hands in the air. As her exasperation faded to resignation, she retrieved them and folded them across her chest. Then she stared at her husband in silence. Her eyes were alight with the electricity of conflicting thoughts that were colliding into each other like a jar stuffed with fireflies. Percival had to move quickly before this turbulent process resolved itself against his interests.

  “I love you, Baby,” he said. He added an extra dose of his special look. It was impossible for him to look more pathetic or vulnerable. He looked like a mess of a man who could not erase the sullied essence of who he actually was. If this concentrated version of The Face did not work, then the impact of his nuclear weapon had been neutered. Daphne would leave him for sure. Percival waited.

  Daphne rubbed her temples with her fingers. Doris’ back paws were jerking slightly. She must have been having a nightmare about drugged cat food. Percival could not leave his wife dancing on the fence between forgiveness and retribution. He moved in for the knock-out punch before she could reclaim the momentum of her anger.

  “Daphne, I love all of our six children. I am glad we had them all. I know they are a handful but we have such a wonderful family, don’t we? We have fun, no? We have a house that is paid for. We have savings that should see them through university ... if they also take up part-time jobs, of course. Any time I do not spend in the workshop, I spend with you and the kids. And to be frank, you would grow sick of me if I stayed home all day.”

  Daphne shrugged and stroked her cat. Percival walked over and knelt at her feet.

  “But when I am not working we have such a wonderful time together. I make the kids toys with my own hands. I play with them on the swings I built. I read to them. We all enjoy board games together on Friday evenings.”

  “And you always cheat.”

  “Well, they have to start learning about the real world, now don’t they? But I only cheat just enough to educate them. The rest of the time, I win through skill.”

  Daphne scratched her mouth to hide an emerging smile. Percival persisted.

  “You were right, Daphne. I wanted you to be pregnant from marriage to menopause. But you were wrong about the reason. I may be driven by a basic impulse, but it has nothing to do with self-replication or bacteria. The truth is that I married above my rank. I know that. I am always reminded of that whenever we stand side-by-side in front of the mirror. I hate it. I always turn away before you give the image too much thought.”

  Daphne knelt to her husband’s level and tried to seal his lips with her fingers. Percival interwove them with his own and guided the human fabric away from his face. He was gripped by the forceful candour of an unintended confession. It would not be defied.

  “Daphne, you have a good heart and strong maternal instincts. Your compassion is the first thing I noticed about you. I took advantage of it. When I got you, I wanted to keep you as pregnant as possible so you would always see me in the children you love. As long as you were having my babies, our bond would survive any sudden bout of common sense on your part. But you know what I love the most about the children?”

  “What?” asked Daphne as she fought to retrieve her sulking face.

  “I love them because they look more like you than me. Each time I look at them I feel so proud of myself. I managed to convince a woman like you to create such wonderful children with me! Remarkable ... So there. I said it. I am not ashamed.”

  Percival was not lying. Truth had triumphed over pragmatism. Now, Daphne was all sniffles and giggles.

  “Let’s go to bed, Percy. You have already spent most of the night with ... her. Now you must spend the rest of the day with me.”

  “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Daphne.”

  This was also true. Daphne smiled.

  “You may want to save some of that suaveness for another time, Percy. If you continue this way, it will be wasted. You have already poured more flattery on me than I can absorb in a day. Let’s go to bed.”

  “Absolutely. I first need to make a quick call to Zimbabwe. I will be going there soon, remember?”

  “For business, right?”

  “Yes. This phone call will bring us more business so we can pay more taxes!” Percival grinned mischievously.

  “Okay, Percy. Don’t take too long.” Daphne’s voice was calm and loving once more. “I may have a use for that wayward hand.”

  Percival cong
ratulated himself. He had made the right decision. Too many men did not know when to concede. Percival was too savvy for that. Keeping his wife was more important than winning an argument about spiritual voltage. Besides, such confrontations were like mud fights. No contestant ever wins a mud fight. Only the spectators do.

  Percival picked up the phone and dialled the number. The man at the other end of the line was friendly as always. If Percival did not know him better, he would think he was talking to his very best friend. But Giorgio Gweta was like that with everyone. He was an expert at finding the pockets of insecurity and conceit that were hidden in some crevice of a person’s soul. When he found them, he would tickle them silly until the person was too charmed to be offended by his overstated sincerity. But could anyone truly be his friend?

  “Hello Mr. Gweta. Today is my birthday … Well, to be frank, I had forgotten. Daphne reminded me this morning. What would we do without the women in our lives? ... Ipswich is cold ... The children? They are very small indeed ... Daphne? She is fine. She was mad at me, but I found a way to make good. I told her that my latest contract would bring in more money so we can pay even more taxes. And yes, those words tumbled out of my mouth like an army of porcupines.”

  Percival looked over his shoulder to make sure Daphne was not there. She was not.

  “Did you know that my tax rate is fifty-one percent? And she doesn’t care! Oh well. Someone has to sustain the British welfare state. Even if the only reward is winning favour with one’s wife … Anyway, did you get the amended contract? ... Excellent. You will have your product in three weeks. I hope that’s fine? ... Good. Oh, and did you change the arbitration clause to reflect Singapore instead of London? ... Perfect! And will you be there on the big day, Mr. Gweta? ... No? What a shame. But I understand.”

  Percival looked over his shoulder once more before continuing.

  “There is one other question I had, Mr. Gweta. During the construction process of your product, I was gripped by a sudden inspiration. I made another similar model. This one is even more special. Not only does it get the job done, it does so in style. I made it from the remains of discarded firearms. It has enough AK-47s to equip a small rebel army. I have also incorporated several RPG launchers to add more punch to its spiritual voltage. In fact, it even has two Bristol Bloodhounds in the main chassis ... Yes, disarmed, of course. Her name is Benhilda. I have grown fond of her, but for a premium of twenty percent over the cost of your first order, I would be willing to part with her. But that’s not all. I would also pay half the shipping costs! Do you think the people on your end would be interested? ... Oh well, it won’t hurt to try when I get there ... Thank you, Mr. Gweta ... Ah, the Spinal Distension Lever. I hated it the moment I heard it. But I will comply in spite of my dignified revulsion as an Englishman, of course. At the very least, I hope you find a hangman who is worthy of my craftsmanship. Pulling the lever of my gallows is not like flushing a toilet, you know? Sure, those criminals are no better than the product of defecation. Nevertheless, it is about the process. Extracting the soul through a man’s neck is a sacred affair. A regular piece of shit has no neck or soul that is amenable to such a sober ceremony ... Thank you, Mr. Gweta. Now I must continue to patch things up with Daphne ... Goodbye.”

  Percival hung up the phone. He hated lawyers, but Mr. Gweta was acceptable. He always found a way to make things work for his clients. Everything was in order. Percival would soon be travelling to Zimbabwe. It was difficult to hide his excitement from Daphne. At least she would be happy to know that her husband was spending time away from Benhilda. He would miss her though.

  * * *

  The Man with Two Brains

  Later that morning, Percival was daydreaming about his trip to Zimbabwe when Daphne walked into the living room.

  “You have a parcel,” she said. “It’s alive.”

  Percival frowned.

  “For me?”

  “Yes. It’s a plant. From Zimbabwe.”

  “That’s odd,” said Percival uncomfortably.

  “Don’t worry. I know it’s not from another woman. Even if it is, I am not concerned. Clearly, she doesn’t know you very well.”

  Percival exhaled. However, his relief did not shed any light on the mysterious package.

  “It must have cost a fortune to ship. Fresh plants need special care,” added Daphne.

  “Thanks, baby,” said Percival. “Nice backside, by the way.”

  Daphne stopped and stared at her husband. If she had not known him for so long, she would have been concerned about his mental health. There was nothing wrong with a man complementing his wife’s physique. The problem was that Percival did so at unusual moments: always after intimacy, but never before.

  “I put the plant in the kitchen,” said Daphne. “It came with this letter.”

  She handed Percival a yellowish envelope. It was countersealed with a black sticker bearing the image of a radiant flower with thin red and yellow petals. It looked like a flame. There was also a thin blue line running down the middle of each petal. The handwriting on the envelope was familiar. Percival smiled and opened the letter. He did not have many friends in his own country, so any contact from those abroad was heart warming. It reassured him that being socially awkward did not have to amount to a life sentence. Percival would often remind himself: “There is always someone who believes that you were worth knowing. Unfortunately, they don’t come with a sticker on their foreheads.”

  Despite that complication, Percival had been lucky. He had not identified his friends through any stickers on their foreheads. He had made them by doing business with shadowy customers. He felt at home in their company.

  The letter inside the envelope was typed in a neat and familiar style.

  * * *

  Dear Percival,

  It has been a while. Greetings.

  I must start by warning you that this correspondence may sound crude in parts and inconsistent in others. I am sure you have noticed that this pattern often plagues my communications. I have never confessed the reason until today. The passage of time eventually makes the disclosure of some secrets inconsequential, at least when shared with a good friend.

  I suffer from a condition called “unihemispheric slow-wave sleep”, or USWS. It is the ability to sleep with half of the brain while the other half remains awake. This evolution comes naturally to some animals that require constant wakefulness. Some birds use it to sleep during migratory flight. This adaptation also comes in handy for animals that live in high-predatory environments. If you were a northern fur seal in an ocean full of sharks, wouldn’t you want the ability to sleep with one eye open?

  To my knowledge, USWS has never been reported in humans. In fact, it took me two years to develop it. Unfortunately, over time, it gradually became a medical condition. I have had it for more than two decades now. The left half of my brain sleeps for about ten hours while the right half remains awake. When the left half stirs to consciousness, both sides remain alert for four hours. After that, the right half retreats into slumber. This process is perpetual. So is my attentiveness.

  Effectively, this means that I do not sleep. I cannot.

  I operate at half my potential for twenty hours each day. But the things I can accomplish in my four hours of total wakefulness ...

  I only lie down for two hours during every twenty-four-hour period. The only purpose is to rest my eyes and limbs. However, even at my most sedate, my mind never drifts far from the prodigious end of the intellectual spectrum.

  The last time my entire brain slept, I was in my teens. I no longer remember how it felt. It must have been a forgettable experience because, well, I have forgotten it.

  When I am inspired, my failure to sleep is a blessing. There are benefits to extending the duration of the productive day.

  Nevertheless, I sometimes crave total sleep. Uninspired wakefulness always courts mischief. Sleep is the only medication that can counter the sudden onslaughts of boredom that trigger unprod
uctive schemes.

  I suppose another benefit of sleep is that it is a drug which can be enjoyed without a doctor’s prescription. Then again, it may not be a good thing that medicine is available over the counter and at no cost. Human progress has suffered immeasurably from society’s daily overdose of this dubious activity. That said, I concede that this view is coloured by the envy of a permanent insomniac.

  Upon reflection, I have come to this conclusion: the joys and frustrations of my condition average out to indifference on my part.

  Maybe indifference is my true curse?

  When I am in my partial state of sleep, I may appear conscious but my abilities are diminished.

  Significantly.

  However, even at my worst, each half of my brain remains superior to the total mental output of most humans. I can walk, eat, and converse in the most diabolical witticisms. With modest effort, I can charm any woman into bed. Though I have done so many times, I am unlikely to repeat the feat. I am unaware of any woman who is worth the effort. Therefore, I have decided to short-circuit the arc of courtship. I simply use money to obtain the same benefits. Unfortunately, the experience only gratifies the physical aspect of my cravings. My brain remains virginal. Lustful but starved.

  I once considered negotiating a fifty-percent discount with my co-fornicators. In the end, I decided against it. That would require brain-to-brain combat. I would bludgeon them like a giant clubbing an ant. Disappointment was certain, even if I won the discount.

  See?

  I am speaking like a man with half a brain, when in fact I have two halves which effectively amount to two wholes …

  I apologize for my disrespectful remark about prostitutes. I cannot take it back. That is another folly of my condition. I am unable to erase anything I right, even if my salvation depends on correcting the typo in this sentence.

  Don’t pity me though, Percival. I still have the capacity to study the text of a foreign language with one eye while reading the newspaper with the other. In fact, this is what I am doing as I write to you.